Falling
by Gwyn Paige
Summary: Sherlock's thoughts as he stands on the edge of the roof of St Bart's. Slight AU. Reviews are always welcome.


The London air is strangely clear that day. It lacks the hanging stench of smog that normally dangles in the background of one's senses, the kind that goes unnoticed until you are able to get a breath of fresh air. Sherlock does not believe in fate, but he thinks that the unusually clean atmosphere of the city on a day such as this must be some sort of sign.

Then again, it could just be his vantage point. He is, after all, standing approximately twenty meters above where he would normally be standing.

As it is, he stands on the top of a building. His feet are planted on the raised bar of concrete on the very edge of the roof, so that they stick out into emptiness on both ends. He had always felt rather proud of his long, angular feet, but now they are something of a curse; he feels unsteady, unbalanced. He is unsure of where the edge ends and the clear air begins, of which direction he ought to lean to begin the fall. If he looks up at the sky, he can almost believe that there is no building beneath him at all.

He admits that he is afraid; first to himself, then to the world: "I am afraid." He says it in a hushed, almost silent whisper, but a slight wind picks up and carries it over the heads of the people milling about beneath him, through the air so clear and clean that he feels the entire city must be able to hear it. Every Londoner must know now: _Sherlock Holmes is afraid._

Sherlock is briefly reminded of the poor barber from the story of Midas, and he almost smiles.

He closes his eyes, and it feels like he is floating on nothing but the clear air. As if the bar and the building have inexplicably disappeared, but he is still standing here, unable to fall. He would like to float here for a while, he thinks. It's rather pleasant here, floating in this little patch of nothingness. And when a breeze picks up and ruffles his coat, he can almost believe he is flying, floating along in a little patch of air and darkness, higher and higher, until he flies away. Perhaps to another place entirely, he thinks, a bit childishly. Perhaps I shall fly to Hong Kong, or Tibet, or America, or the South Pole. He'd always wanted to go to the South Pole; so much to discover, and so little people around to bother you whilst doing so.

Yes, he decides: This is a rather lovely place to be in, this patch of nothingness I have here. It's better than falling, anyway. It's better than dying.

He's come close to dying, after all, and it is not pleasant in the least. And, though he's never fallen before, he's certain that he would not enjoy it. Falling is something often used as a metaphor for failure: falling from grace, falling to pieces, falling apart. Falling in love.

Falling in love isn't normally associated with failure, but then again, Sherlock has never been the perfect definition of normal.

Regardless of all that, the bottom line comes down to this: Sherlock does not want to open his eyes. He does not want to leave the nothingness. He does not want to come back to reality. He does not want to fall. He does not want to die.

But he does not want his friends to die even more.

Sherlock opens his eyes and finds that he is still on the rooftop, still on the concrete bar, still afraid, and still unable to fall into the fresh, clean air.

He looks down at the street below.

He sees John.

His hand automatically goes to his coat pocket and extracts his phone, fingers keying in the familiar password from memory and opening a new text message and preparing to type—

He stops them. Takes control again. Closes the text message. Begins to dial a number. Stops dialing. Shuts the phone off entirely.

Throws the phone behind him, onto the roof of the building that is solidly beneath him but will not be for long.

There are no words for what he wants to say.

"Goodbye, John," he whispers, silently, but the wind carries the words through the clear air all the way to John, and John hears them.

John hears them. And, perhaps, he is able to hear more. Perhaps he is able to hear what Sherlock cannot say. Perhaps he is able to hear that Sherlock is falling in all the ways he possibly can.

Sherlock leans forward.

The wind carries John's answer back: "SHERLOCK, NO!"

Sherlock falls.

The wind ruffles his coat, and he can almost believe he is flying.


End file.
